


Violence

by willneverbeordinary



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bloodplay, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willneverbeordinary/pseuds/willneverbeordinary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will knows how he would touch Hannibal if he wanted to inflict injury. He knows what he would do if he wanted to kill him. He understands the broad brush strokes drawn with blood but finds that what he doesn't know, is the landskap he would paint without that frame of violence to guide him.</p><p>  <i>“There are means of influence other than violence. But violence is what you understand.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Violence

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Christmas gift for the amazing [thefan-girldiaries](http://thefan-girldiaries.tumblr.com). Merry Christmas!
> 
> (I did not intent for it to be read as dub-con but there's always a risk it can be interpreted as such, hence this little warning!)

At first, after they had somehow survived going over the edge of the cliff and falling into the embrace of the sea, blessed and cursed, Hannibal had taken to sleeping next to Will. If the bed wasn’t big enough, Hannibal would make a nest of blankets and sleep on the floor. Will didn’t object.

At first, Will would wake up and not be able to breathe. He was drowning in water and blood and his mind was reeling, stuck in a loop of clawing away at his sanity. His thoughts were screaming, wailing entities like restless banshees. Hannibal’s soothing voice telling him that if he could scream, he wasn’t choking. If he could scream, he could breathe. And Will’s mind would draw to the voice like a moth to flame and settle down transfixed by warmth and light.

At first.

Then the attacks happened less and less. The need for painkillers in the middle of the night because of the wounds in his cheek and shoulder lessened until it was gone. Hannibal would sleep next to him more and more seldom. He would sit at the edge of Will’s bed for a while, bid him goodnight, sometimes stay until Will fell asleep, but more and more he would withdraw.

Now he stayed at the door, with a hand gripping the frame so hard his knuckles would turn white, looked at Will for a long while before saying goodnight and abruptly turning on his heel and leave.

With a bone deep sigh Will closed his eyes.

The next day he rolled out of bed, picked up his pants from where he had dropped them on the floor last night and pulled them on. He didn’t bother changing his t-shirt, just threw on a thick, knitted sweater.

He left his room, crossed the living room and went into the kitchen where Hannibal was preparing breakfast. Will went over to him, keeping a distance. He leaned against the counter, bracing his hands on the countertop behind him.

“I don’t know how to touch you, unless I mean to inflict harm,” he says to Hannibal’s back.

He sees Hannibal stop chopping mushrooms for a moment, how he lifts his head a fraction but doesn’t turn. Then he picks up again.

“You have a nurturing instinct. You know how to touch in compassion. Unless you have completely forgotten.”

Will screws his eyes shut, juts his lower jaw and almost grinds his teeth. “If you’re referring to my dogs, don’t talk about them. I miss them. And I’m blaming you.”

“It’s not the first time you assume I am talking about your pack. Means of deflection, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

Hannibal turns and walks past Will to the stove. “I was in part referring to them.”

Will nods at him.

“Though more so to Abigail.”

“Don’t talk about her, either.”

Hannibal stops and looks at him. “Would you rather I talked about Molly and Walter?”

“I have not forgotten that you tried to kill them,” Will says through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t assume you had,” Hannibal says as he goes to fetch eggs from the refrigerator.

“I have not forgiven you.”

He gets a look and a nod. Then Hannibal gives him a smile, a just barely there curl of his lips.

“You will.”

Will shakes his head, gives a laugh that tastes of frail materials, like glass or ice.

“Presumptuous.”

“Predetermined.”

“I’m not an equation.”

“And forgiveness is less of a choice and more of an emotion preset by the all the actions and consequences that precede it.” Hannibal throws a glance at Will before returning to his cooking.

Will’s fingers drum against the tabletop. “A lump, not a sum.”

“Difficult things, love and forgiveness,” Hannibal says as he melts butter in a pan.

Will closes his eyes, feels his heart do an extra beat that swells painfully in his chest.

“How would you touch me, if not in compassion?” Hannibal’s voice drifts towards him and he blinks his eyes open.

“In violence?” He frowns. “Anger?”

The butter melts. Sizzles. The scent rises and trickles into the air.

“Righteous violence.”

Will nods at him.

“I believe I have told you before that you need to be intimate with your instincts, Will,” Hannibal says without looking up.

Will pushes away from the counter. “We are not in therapy anymore, _Doctor_ Lecter.”

He comes to stand next to Hannibal. He pushes his hands into his pockets. Watches the breakfast dish come together piece by piece.

“What are your instincts?”

“Same as nearly all living things; to eat.” Hannibal smiles at him, a small curl of his lips.

“Survival?”

“On a perfunctory level. Then, survival is basic and instinctive. ”

“Your instinct goes a bit beyond mere survival.” Will looks at the mushroom and eggs. “At least it used to. I was sure of your survival instinct too, until you went over the edge of the cliff with me.”

“We are all more complex than just our basic instincts, Will. At times we are at odds with ourselves; instinct telling us one thing but emotions telling us something else.”

“You often find emotions to be counterproductive?”

“Not often, no.”

A silence falls, the only noises the sizzling from the pan and the blood like the howl of strong winds in Will’s ears.

“What are your emotions telling you now?” Hannibal asks, giving Will only a brief look from the corner of his eye.

Will slowly pulls his hands free from the front pockets of his pants and his right hand reaches for the collar of Hannibal’s shirt. He touches it, a light pinch of his thumb and forefinger, and then he lets his thumb slide against the warm skin underneath. Hannibal keeps perfectly still. Will draws a breath, feels it settle low in his chest with a tingle. He watches his fingers as they splay against Hannibal’s neck and feels the jump of Hannibal’s pulse, sees him close his eyes and push the pan off the stove plate. Taking a step closer he slides his hand to Hannibal’s throat and curls his fingers. Pressure on the pulse points, thumb and forefinger digging in just below the jaw, and he sense more than feels Hannibal going rigid against the grip. His head tips forward at first but then he tilts it back instead and Will pushes up against Hannibal and catches his arm and pushes it up behind his back. The heat from Hannibal’s body bleeds into him and his own temperature leaps up and his heartrate quickens.

He doesn't see Hannibal's smile except in the eye of his mind but he tightens his grip and hauls Hannibal up and pulls him against himself while he presses close. Every inch where they touch burns, but where his fingers meet the skin of Hannibal's throat it scalds. He yanks at Hannibal's arm, feels the tendon and muscle protest, and turns him around and shoves him against the kitchen island. Hannibal's hips connect with the hard edge of the island's countertop and he folds, his free arm flying out to catch himself. Will's hand slips to Hannibal's shoulder in the process and he grabs the fabric of the shirt and twists it and he looks down at Hannibal bent over and trapped and the way he's pressing up against Hannibal, the hard line of his erection pressed against Hannibal's ass through their clothes, makes his breathing grow shaky and heavy. He looks through half-closed eyes as Hannibal turns his head, cheek pressed against the countertop.  
  
"Did you enjoy seeing your wife as the Dragon saw her, if only a little? Do you enjoy seeing yourself in the mirror, the way I see you?" Hannibal's voice is strained, his upper lip curled and his eyes halfway closed.  
  
Will rips Hannibal up and around and his fist connects with Hannibal's mouth.  
  
Hannibal smiles at him, a cut open wound, and his teeth are bloodied. Lines of red framing sharp white teeth and a wet tongue dips out to lick at the split in his lip. His eyes glow darkly; amber and coal.  
  
Will hits him again. Again. With his pulse calming to a steady drum he hits over and over. Black bruises bloom on Hannibal's cheekbone, above his eye. Blood trickles from his nose, glistens on his lips and gets matted in his eyebrows. He is sagging against the island and looks up at Will through heavy eyelids and Will grabs him and shows him against it again, pressing Hannibal's face against the smooth surface with a hand twisted in his hair.  
  
Will feels Hannibal shift back against him, just a little, and he feels the rush like falling from a great height. Will is still hard. He feels his pulse pick up, feels it drum quick beats in his throat. He looks at his bloodied knuckles and slowly he lifts his hand and lets his tongue dart out to lick. The metal stings on his tongue and burns in his gut and he rolls his hips and tightens his hold on Hannibal's hair. He is panting as he grabs a kitchen knife from its stand and carefully, with help of both hands, cuts Hannibal's shirt open. It falls to the sides, the fine fabric gathering in folds, framing light skin with pattern and dark contrast. Will runs his thumb down Hannibal's spine and sees the shifts and twitches of the muscles in Hannibal's back. His pulse is roaring in his ears as he touches the edge of the blade to Hannibal's skin. He drags and pushes and a thin line appears followed by ruby droplets like pearls on a string. Beneath him Hannibal is still, his right cheek still resting against the wooden countertop and his eyes are closed and his breathing even. Will watches his face as he cuts a second time, deeper. There is a minute twitch of his upper lip, a tiny furrow between his eyebrows. In the hollow of his throat his pulse is beating frantically.  
  
Will bites back a noise and lets the knife clatter onto the counter. He reaches for a bottle of olive oil. With a dull clank he puts it down next to Hannibal's face. His hands grip Hannibal's shoulder and he begins to run them slowly down Hannibal's back. His fingers slide through the congealing blood and it smears – abstract and macabre finger painting on the expanse of Hannibal's back – and Will's breath hitches. He reaches Hannibal's pants, runs his fingertips against the belt and traces it to the buckle. Hannibal is shifting minutely below his touch. When Will's fingers brush his abdomen it concaves beneath his touch and he feels the shiver that runs through his body.  
  
With fumbling, jerky movements he undoes Hannibal's pants and pulls them down slowly over the curve of his ass. Hannibal arches his back, tilts his hips, and Will bites his lip around a low hum. He exhales and it carries traces of sound; warm and trembling. He slides the underwear down too and Hannibal spreads his legs a little and keeps his upper body pressed against the counter and Will takes in the sight of him and feels his cock throb.  
  
He closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes slowly, in and out.  
  
When he blinks them open Hannibal hasn't moved. He's still laying splayed and bleeding, breathing in small puffs against the smooth wooden surface.  
  
Will yanks his sweater over his head and tosses it away and unbuttons his pants. Leaning in closer again he places his palm on Hannibal's lower back, the heel of his hand resting against Hannibal's tailbone, as he unzips. Drawing a shaky breath, feeling the heat licking a trail from somewhere in his abdomen to pool in his groin, he pushes his underwear out of the way. Will presses close, lets his hand slide to Hannibal's hip and leans down and drapes himself over him. He's panting harshly against a blood smeared shoulder. With a hand around his cock he rocks his hips and drags the head against heated skin and a jolt of electricity punches him in the gut and he moans deep and low. Hannibal is breathing heavily beneath him and pushes back against him and Will presses his teeth to warm, coppery skin.  
  
"Will."  
  
It's breathless and broken. It's a wet and hot and heavy sound and Will bites down though he doesn't quite break the skin. Pulling back he reaches for the olive oil and pours it in his hand. It's gets on the floor, on Hannibal's clothes. With shaky fingers he rubs gently against Hannibal's hole and feels it flutter beneath his touch. He has to garb the root of his cock and squeeze and draw a few breaths. He continues as he feels Hannibal shift and push back against his fingers and he slips two inside. Hannibal clenches around the digits and Will grabs the counter and drops his head and the noise he makes sounds like a growl in his own ears.  
  
The answering noise from Hannibal, a breathy little thing, has him cursing and gripping the countertop so hard his knuckles go white.  
  
Will pulls his fingers out and grabs the bottle again, oil getting everywhere once more, as he slicks himself up. He places his hand back on Hannibal's hip and with the other guides himself into the searing, tight heat of Hannibal's body. It's a slow give and he feels how he pushes deeper faster than Hannibal's body can accommodate. He sees the sweat that breaks on Hannibal's brow and the curl to his upper lip. But his jaw his lax and his eyes closed, eyelashes fanning out against his bloodied cheeks.  
  
Once he bottoms out he falls down against Hannibal's back and feels how their hearts hammer. It's a loop, an echo reverberating on an endless feed. It tugs at him and he pushes his face against Hannibal's neck, breathes him in and drags his lips against glowing skin. He begins to move as he feels Hannibal move. Small rolls of his hips and his face still pressed against Hannibal's body. Hannibal twists and withers beneath him and Will lifts his upper body. With one hand firmly holding Hannibal's hip, fingers digging in bruisingly hard, he runs his other hand down Hannibal's back. As he does it again he lets his nails scratch the skin. The third time he claws hard enough for red welts to rise up and the fourth time he draws blood. Hannibal twitches the first time Will's nails break his skin but as Will does it again, carving bleeding lines as he thrusts sharp and deep, Hannibal merely pants hotly, eyebrows drawing together and hips twitching.  
  
The kitchen smells of iron and sex. Will breathes in and red clings to the roof of his mouth and damp heat coils around his tongue.  
  
He opens his eyes a fraction and watches his cock slide in and out of Hannibal's body, watches the way his back curves and the painting of dark blood shining against his back and face. His breath catches in his throat and he feels a surge of liquid heat pooling in his groin and he picks up his pace, slamming hard into Hannibal, and as his nails dig into the deeper one of the cuts Hannibal gives a broken moan and jerks back hard against him.    
  
Will falls down over Hannibal's back, sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder and fucks him hard as he feels something snap inside and the building, tingling heat collapses like a dying star and biting down hard, warm blood flooding his mouth, Will comes shaking and growling.  
  
Beneath him he hears Hannibal breathe out a sob, a mash of vocals and Will's name, and go taut before Will feels how Hannibal collapses, completely boneless, against the islands, pressed down by Will plasters against his back.  
  
Will relaxes his jaw without having clamped down around the flesh his teeth could close against and tear off. He’s a heavy weight against Hannibal’s back. His cheeks sticking to the blood. Inch by inch he reaches out until his fingers cards trembling through Hannibal’s hair. Will sees Hannibal’s face relax but then he tries to twist away.

Will stops touching him. He frowns and sees something uncurl and he catches a glimpse of something that unfurls into shape and pattern.

“You— don’t know what to do with touch if it isn’t violent.” He runs his fingers down Hannibal’s spine and sees and feels the man’s breath catch. “Chiyoh told me that violence is what I understand. It’s what you understand, too.”

“I was never violent with Alana,” Hannibal says and he tries to look at Will but Will’s weight is pinning him down, restricting his movements.

“You didn’t love Alana.”

Hannibal goes very, very still beneath him. Will sees how he shuts his eyes tight, sees his eyelids try to blink. Will pulls back with the overwhelming taste of warm, viscous iron stuck in his mouth and slowly and carefully he pulls out and tucks himself back and zips up. Hannibal doesn’t move beyond splaying his fingers and laying there panting raggedly. When he tries to stand Will can see how his legs threaten to give in and he catches his arm.

“We are getting you cleaned up.”

Will gently removes the ruined shirt and guides Hannibal to step out of his pants and underwear that has sagged to the floor. With one hand against the small of Hannibal’s back and the other closed around his elbow he leads him to the bathroom. With a horse exhale Hannibal sits down on the lip of the bathtub. Will sees the way he shifts his weight and how his eyebrows draw together momentarily, how his upper lip twitch.

“Should you shower? If not I’ll clean you with a cloth.”

Hannibal lifts his head and looks at Will through drooping eyelids, mouth slightly open around strained breathing.

“The wounds would have to be cleaned afterwards with antiseptic. I assume they don’t require stitches.”

Will shakes his head. “No, I just barely cut the skin.”

Hannibal nods at him.

“Will you help me stand?”

Will steps forward and with a firm but gentle grip he helps Hannibal to his feet. Hannibal leans against him and sways as he steps into the tub.

“Thank you.” Hannibal’s eyes are tightly shut and he’s breathing harshly, leaning heavily against the wall and grabbing the showerhead’s mounting bracket with one hand.

Will looks at him and the way his legs seem to tremble and how he seems to sway as he has to remove a hand to turn the water on. When he falters Will scrambles into the tub and catches him as he begins to sag and fall. The water drums down against Will’s head and runs down his back and begins to soak through his clothes. Hannibal drops his head back against Will’s shoulder and Will tightens his embrace on him, holds him close. The water runs a vibrant red at first and, slowly, it turns pink until it comes away clear.

Will helps Hannibal out of the tub, wraps him in a towel and reaches to turn the shower off. With a squeak of the piping the water stops running. In the silence that follows he can hear his own heart still loud in his ears.

Hannibal disentangles himself from Will and sits down on the lid of the toilet and Will moves over to the bathroom cabinet and grabs antiseptic and cotton wool. With careful movements he begins to clean the wounds, beginning with the two gashes caused by the knife. Hannibal drops his head and lets out a breath as Will dabs his back. When he’s done he stands quietly for a while, listening to his clothes drip. With slow movements he begins to strip and drops his clothes in the tub, they land with a soggy sound and in the corner of his eye he sees Hannibal’s lips thin for just a brief moment. He leaves them there and wraps a towel around his waist.

“Can you stand?”

Without raising his head, Hannibal gets to his feet. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to salvage breakfast, I would think.”

Will nods at him. “I’ll make us something. If you don’t mind.”

After a moment Hannibal inclines his head. He walks past Will and towards the door.

“Hannibal.”

Will sees Hannibal stop and turn his head a fraction. He draws a breath, feels it shake inside his ribcage and feels his heart beat in painful swells. He closes the distance between them, only a few steps, and stands close, close. Will feels the damp warmth in the air roiling in the few inches of space between them and sees the tension Hannibal holds in his shoulders. He reaches out, places his hand on Hannibal’s uninjured shoulder, and hears him exhale. Will breathes out too as their bodies connect. He steps closer, just short of touching. His eyebrows draw together and his eyelids flutter as blinks rapidly.

“Turn around,” he says.

Hannibal turns and meets his eyes.

With a hand he notice is shaking, Will reaches out and brushes his fingertips against Hannibal’s cheek. Gently he cups it. He looks into guarded eyes, sees emotions roll and swirl inside, dark smoke and dark clouds, and he moves closer. His heart beats louder and louder. The sound bleeds from within the cavern of his ribs and spills into the room until it’s an arrangement of deep notes and fluttering scores that pound against him.

He leans in.

“Hannibal,” his breath puffs out against Hannibal’s lips and Hannibal’s eyelids fall halfway closed. “Please?”

Will sees Hannibal’s lips part, feels his breath against his own lips and sees Hannibal’s fingers twitch. He closes the distance then and feels Hannibal’s hands grab his hips and feels and hears the small noise that escapes him as their lips meet. He can almost feel the energy drumming inside Hannibal's body and there's an answering tune inside him. He pulls back slowly.

He opens his eyes and is met by Hannibal’s, round and glossy and glowing. Will swallows, drops his gaze.

“I want—“

“Yes.”

Will nods. Draws a shaky breath. He steps back and Hannibal lets him go. He lifts his gaze meets Hannibal’s eyes again and looks away. Hannibal reaches out and strokes his cheek gently and Will gives him a small smile.

“Will you help me dress the wounds?”

Will places his hand over Hannibal’s, links their fingers and lets their joint hands fall between them, a physical link. He nods again.

His heartbeat is back inside his chest and it thuds steadily and evenly as he follows Hannibal out of the room, his hands holding onto Will’s, and Will allows himself to be led.


End file.
